


Only One

by Mirimea



Category: Friends
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Early in Canon, F/M, Gen, Past Rape/Non-con, Pre-Relationship, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-22 08:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2500724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirimea/pseuds/Mirimea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After experiencing something traumatic, Chandler struggles to piece himself back together. Pre-Chandler/Monica (hints of future relationship).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning (rape)! Not explicitly described, but this story deals with the aftermath. If you think this will affect you in a bad way, please don't read. 
> 
> This story is set early in the series. I avoided setting a specific time-frame, but it might even be season 1. Definitely before London, in any case. It is cross-posted to ff.net.

**Prologue**

It is not that the pain is immense, but it is there, nagging and raw.

Chandler closes the door carefully behind him and locks it, surprising himself with how steady his hands are as he turns the key around in the lock. He exhales carefully, quietly, because it is 4:32 in the morning and Joey is most probably sleeping off the fever from the flu he had caught a couple of days ago

_mocking laughter turns into a horrifying, silent intensity and he can barely think but the feeling of humiliation is still overwhelming_

Chandler shakes his head, feels something in his chest tighten. He forces himself to breathe steadily and walks, with only a slight limp, into his room. He grabs his pajamas from the bed and moves into the bathroom with a panicked urgency. He can't bear to look in the mirror, instead undressing directly and stepping into the shower.

_the bodies pressed up against him makes his heart race with claustrophobic anxiety but his arms feel numb and he can't move_

There is something--of course he knows what it is--smeared and dried over the back of his thighs; even more along his jaw and throat, along with dried saliva. The hot water easily washes these things away, but he finds that it doesn't actually help. He feels like a walking cliche, but it turns out that showering actually _doesn't fucking help_.

His anger, even if it is only expressed in his own mind, surprises him. The emotion seeps out as fast as it had surfaced. It is replaced by an odd feeling, impossible to describe, but it makes his heart race until his throat is hurting. It is like his heart is trying to force its way up and away from his body.

_rhythmic movements, the smell and taste of sweat and something much more stale in his throat_

Oddly disoriented, Chandler stays in the shower for what must be at least half-an-hour, until his skin is red from the heat of the water and his heartbeat finally slows down.

 

 


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_"So your friend ditched you, eh?"_

_Chandler glumly looked away from where Ross (_ Ross _of all people) had somehow managed to hook up with that cute bartender the moment she got off her shift. Chandler might as well have been out with Joey._

_The guy that had approached him made a sympathetic face. "Tough, man."_

_"Yeah, well." Chandler shrugged. Sure, he was kind of bummed out, but if he had to be completely honest, it wasn't like he could blame Ross. Chandler would have done the same, if he'd thought he had a shot at hooking up with that girl. Or, well. He would have done the same if he thought he had a shot at her_ and _if he had the courage to actually talk to her. Curse his inability to string words together to sentences around hot women._

_When the guy included him in the round of beers he was buying, Chandler shrugged again and didn't say no._

Chandler wakes up, breathing through a crippling sense of dread for a couple of seconds without even knowing why. Then the memories come back and it is like someone has dumped cold water over him.

He is an idiot. Random guys don't approach other random guys in bars. They don't randomly buy them drinks, either, even if it seems like it is meant as a friendly gesture. People keep mentioning Chandler's gay “quality”; he should be more aware of the signals he apparently, inadvertently, sends out. Note to self, never forget again.

So, he'd been made the fool a thousand times over last night.

Stupid.

He rolls over, glancing at the digital alarm clock on his bedside table: 8:52. Since it is Saturday, he should be getting ready to head over to the girls' for the traditional weekend breakfast slash brunch (which is actually more like everyone bumming food from Monica, not that she doesn't enjoy it because Chandler knows that she does). He moves his legs experimentally. Still sore. He knows, rationally, that he should go to the hospital, but the very idea feels surreal. Hell, the idea of _eating breakfast_ feels surreal.

Hiding in bed is probably not the most realistic alternative, and logically he knows that it isn't going to make anything better, but something about the darkness of his bedroom with the curtains covering the windows feels comforting. It's like when he was a kid and his parents were arguing downstairs. In the dark, under the covers, Chandler is nothing. Nothing is good.

He rolls over again, carefully.

Getting out of bed is beginning to feel like his Everest.

* * *

A couple of hours later, Chandler hears someone trying to open the front door, then, upon realizing that it is locked, starts to knock; impatiently and no-nonsense enough for it to impossibly be anyone else than Monica. He hesitates. There is something oddly comforting about being able to keep people out of the apartment. He really should lock the door more often.

Monica knocks again, and there is a grumble from the other room, then footsteps as Joey walks across the apartment to fumble with the lock. Chandler hears the door open a moment later and Joey mutters a greeting.

Monica's voice is loud, however, and she sounds bewildered. "Why is the door locked?"

"Dunno." Chandler can imagine Joey shrugging. "Must've been Chandler."

"But you never lock the door.” Pause. “Anyway, where were you this morning? My kitchen is like a pancake ball pit because you guys didn't show up."

"I was sleeping," Joey whines. "And don't talk so loud, my head hurts!"

"Still sick, huh?" Monica says in softer voice, sympathetically. "I'll bring over some pancakes for you. Is Chandler here?"

"Dunno," Joey says again before raising his voice. "Chandler?"

Chandler lies still on the bed, wondering if maybe he should just pretend to be asleep.

"He and Ross went out yesterday. Maybe he got lucky? Ross wouldn't shut up about today about what happened to him, at least."

Chandler's breath catches at the thought. Got lucky. Yeah.

"Chandler?" A knock on the bedroom door makes him stiffen, then force himself to relax. Then, of course, because no one he knows has any sense of the concept of privacy whatsoever, the door opens slightly. He pulls the covers over his head automatically.

Monica sounds concerned. "You alright?"

"Sick," Chandler says quietly, and finds himself surprised by his own voice. It's rough, and definitely works in his favor to sell the lie. "Must've caught what Joey has."

"Oh man, you better not give it to me too," Monica half-jokes from the doorway. Chandler can't really see her from under the covers, only a sliver of her legs through the hole he left for breathing. "Want me to bring some pancakes for you as well?"

"Thanks, but I'm not really hungry right now."

"Okay." Monica pauses. "Just drink lots of fluids, okay?"

"Mm."

The door closes quietly.

Chandler has no idea what he is doing, but pathetic may very well be his new middle name.

* * *

At three in the afternoon, it is beginning to feel like he has to get up. Lying in the dark has left the comforting stage and moved on driving him crazy. He doesn't want to _think_ anymore. The apartment is quiet, so he feels reasonable safe in getting up and moving about at his own pace.

It turns out his body is hurting more now than it did. Not just in... certain places, but his arms, legs, muscles overall feel sore, like he's had a really strenuous workout session. Not to mention he feels nauseous, but he is not sure if that is just a mental thing, or if it is a side-effect from whatever drug he had been slipped.

Because he must have been given something. He realizes it now. His memory is so blurry, just alcohol would never explain this, nor would it explain the way his body had refused to obey his commands.

He is forcing down some cereal when Joey's bedroom door swings open. Chandler startles embarrassingly despite himself, dropping his spoon halfway to his mouth. It falls to the floor, milk splashing onto his dressing gown.

“Look who's finally up.” Joey looks pretty rough, which normally would have given Chandler just a little pinch of satisfaction, because there will always be a stupid part of him that is jealous of Joey's looks and natural confidence in himself. The pinch doesn't come this time, however, pushed away by a stronger feeling. It's like he can't get enough air into his lungs. It's just _Joey_ , but something about his presence just makes Chandler queasy.

He forces himself to smile. “Thanks for giving me the flu, asshole.”

“Yeah, you look pretty terrible.” Joey heads towards the bathroom, untying his robe.

Was it that obvious? Chandler looks away, uncomfortable, even as the rational part of his mind tells him that Joey is talking about the effects of the lack of sleep and his general mood, not _that_.

“You should talk,” he retorts weakly. When Joey closes the bathroom door, he bends down to pick up the spoon, then leaves the bowl in the sink before escaping back into his room.   


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Exhaustion is a word that Chandler has never really reflected over, but now realizes that he has been using it way too flippantly in the past. Never before has he felt so completely run-down to the very core of his being. It is like any energy he might have had has seeped out of him throughout the day, leaving him with an empty, heavy body to lug around. _This_ is what exhaustion feels like.

Walking up the stairs feels like a chore; on top of that, something about the turns in the staircase makes him irrationally nervous and he can't shake off the feeling that someone is walking right behind him, just out of sight, even though he knows there isn't. It makes him want to run the last sets of stairs, just to get away, but how can he do that when he barely has the energy to walk?

Chandler had spent the entire Sunday holed up at home, wearing his old dressing gown and alternating between his bed, watching TV and forcing down cereal until his stomach had started to feel bloated from getting little but milk for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Joey had been starting to feel better and hung out with him for a bit, and Chandler had found himself slowly getting used to a new dynamic with his roommate, one that Joey is completely unaware of.

It's not like it is Joey's fault that Chandler feels like a different person. Or if not completely different, at least altered. ( _Or ruined_ ). And the thing is, Chandler has _always_ felt like a bit less than Joey. It's difficult not to, with the way everything (except career) seems to come so easy for the guy, but Chandler has never let that bother him too much. He figures that he has qualities that makes up for what he lacks in the Joey department. Like his intelligence for instance, and his wit as well as an apparently successful, if boring, career. Furthermore, Chandler knows that he has been called sensitive on occasion, which he thinks can be both a good or bad thing depending on who you ask.

The problem now being that, if Chandler had felt somewhat less than Joey earlier, now, he feels like _nothing_ in comparison. And every time Joey looks at him, Chandler gets irrationally certain that Joey should somehow be able to see and pick up on how pathetic Chandler has become.

So far, Joey doesn't seem to notice anything amiss, and Chandler is more than willing to keep up the act, even if his own personality suddenly feels like a lie.

Sunday evening, Chandler had seriously considered calling in sick to work the next day. The very idea of going outside had made him feel nauseous, but he had also rationalized that he couldn't keep himself locked up forever. Maybe he had been overreacting? It had pissed him off, how his body kept reminding him of things, kept feeling things that it shouldn't. So, some guys had, well, _humiliated_ him. So what? What else is new?

(Except he has to carefully _not think about it_ because otherwise his stomach will churn violently and his heart will race until he feels dizzy.)

So Chandler had gone to work Monday morning and it had been oddly, okay. If there is one thing that never seems to change, it is the business of data processing. He finds himself taking a bizarre comfort in the dullness of the numbers on his spreadsheets and the process of methodically moving, graphing and analyzing them.

During the day, he carefully avoids going to the lunch room during the rush hours; ten, twelve and two o'clock, and he doesn't go to the water cooler at all, and he doesn't take part in the weekly hockey betting. It goes fine, it really does. Things aren't that different from before; he thinks. Just overreacting.

It doesn't quite explain why one single day at work leaves him so exhausted that he is barely able to walk up the stairs to his apartment, but he chalks it up to lack of sleep and the irrational feelings of stress from this weekend. Tomorrow will be better, for sure.

Finally in front of his front door, it turns out Joey is not home. Chandler fumbles for the keys in his inner breast pocket.

"Hey, feeling better?"

He drops the keys the moment he fishes them up, startled, and turns around. "Hey, yeah. Sort of."

Monica finished buttoning her thick winter coat all the way up. "You sure? You still look pretty terrible."

"So people keep telling me." Chandler awkwardly bends down to pick up his keys. He smiles, or grimaces, he's not sure. "A guy could get a complex."

Everything he says feel fake, but Monica doesn't seem to notice. How can she not notice?

She snorts, but her eyes are sympathetic, and even through his nervousness and odd sense of disorientation, Chandler can't help but feel a pang of warmth for the woman in front of him. He'll always have a soft spot for her. Ross' younger sister, the kind, awkward teenager that grew up to be the most caring person he had ever met.

"Well, there's leftovers in the fridge if you want any.” Monica says, unaware of his thoughts. “You up for joining us downstairs? We're planning Joey's birthday party."

Right. He'd forgotten about that. He tries the smile-grimace thing again. "I'm sort of beat, actually."

Monica tilts her head. "I know what you mean. The flu really takes it out of you." She smiles slightly. "Well, we're more than capable party-planners on our own. See you!"

Chandler nods distractedly and finally gets his door open.

* * *

About an hour later, after a failed attempt to take a nap, Chandler is sitting in front of the TV when he hears someone fumble with the door. He turns around, tensing up before he hears someone put a key in the lock and he realizes it must be Joey.

"Hey," Chandler says as Joey steps through the door.

"Hey man." Joey throws the key onto the kitchen counter and shrugs out of his jacket, looking annoyed. "Why is the door locked if you're home?"

Chandler shrugs, unsure of what to say. It is true what Monica had said a couple of days ago; they never keep their door locked, just like Monica and Rachel doesn't keep theirs locked, thanks to that disastrous Thanksgiving when they had all been locked out of the apartment with the oven on inside. "A guy at work got robbed a couple of days ago while he was in the shower," he lies. "I just thought it would be a good idea to keep it locked. Most people in the city do, you know."

"Huh," Joey scratches his head and sits down in one of the bar chairs by the counter. He looks tired as well, but seems to have recovered from the flu well enough by now. "So how are you feeling today? You look like crap."

Chandler grimaces at him without even attempting to smile, because this is Joey and it's okay. "Just tired."

"Sorry that you got sick too."

"It's fine." So now Chandler feels guilty for lying _and_ making Joey feel guilty. Neither of them should have to feel guilty. "Monica said she had some leftovers, if you want dinner."

"Great!" Joey stands up. "My appetite is finally back. Man, it felt weird not being hungry."

"I can imagine," Chandler mutters and watches Joey head for the door.

Hand on the door knob, Joey pauses. "You're not coming?"

"Nah, not very hungry." Chandler waves his hand vaguely.

Joey gives him a surprisingly stern look that reminds Chandler eerily of the way Gloria Tribbiani looks at him if he says no thanks to seconds, or thirds. "If you're well enough to work, you're well enough to eat."

Chandler has no real desire to hang out with his friends. He hasn't even talked to most of the rest of the gang since before this weekend, and while he has gotten used to hanging out with Joey again, and Monica because well, she's _Monica_ , the idea of facing the rest of them makes his chest twist with something like panic.

What if they can _tell_?

But Joey is still looking at him and Chandler doesn't have the energy to argue. Logically, he knows that he can't avoid his friends forever, so he sighs and stands up slowly. "If I face-plant in lasagna, it's your fault."

When they enter apartment 20, it turns out that only Monica and Phoebe are there. They abruptly stop talking as they enter, their heads snapping up to look at them. It's conspicuous enough for Chandler to realize they're still discussing the surprise birthday party.

"Hey," Joey greets them obliviously, heading straight to the fridge.

"Hey, you guys!" Phoebe smiles at them. "You're up and about again.” She pauses, looking at them. “Wow, Chandler, you look terrible. Go to bed."

"I couldn't sleep," Chandler mutters, frustrated with the comment. He gets it, alright.

"We were going to watch a movie," Monica says, shooting him an understanding smile. "Wanna join?"

Chandler shrugs, and somehow he ends up perched on the arm of the couch beside Monica, as he picks at the leftover roast chicken with baby vegetables and mashes potatoes. His stomach isn't really up to eating, hasn't been for several days, but he somehow manages to force down enough to keep anyone from commenting. But then, he figures that he probably gets a leeway from being "sick", still.

He stands to put the plate in the sink, and when he comes back, Monica has moved over to allow him a seat on the couch beside her. Since he can't refuse without making it look odd, he warily sits down.

Monica shifts beside him, and the idea of her body so close makes his heart beat wildly with an odd sense of claustrophobia. He takes a deep breath, staring at the TV-screen. Another deep breath, and his nose picks up the familiar scent of Monica's shampoo. It's a soothing smell; his body starts to unclench and he sinks back into the cushions slowly.

* * *

His chest feels fluttery with anxiety. It's dark. He's not sure why, but something makes him want to move, to get away, but he can't move.

"...sleep so restlessly?" a voice penetrates his consciousness.

"I don't know, I don't watch him sleep."

"You are now," That is definitely Phoebe's voice, Chandler realizes.

He reluctantly opens his eyes, and, upon seeing three heads leaning over him, yelps and nearly falls off the couch. "What are you _doing_?" he screeches, trying to will his heart to stop racing. He doesn't remember the dream, but he is still caught up in the feeling of it, and the claustrophobia makes him struggle to get enough air into his lungs.

"You fell asleep, man."

"And what, Chandler-watching is the new cool thing?"

Maybe he is overreacting. His anger seems to disconcert them; they lean away from him.

"You were moving in your sleep," Phoebe says after a moment of somewhat awkward silence. "You even hit Monica."

Chandler glances at Monica who is rubbing her arm, and he feels a pang of guilt. The anger disappears as quickly as it had come to him, leaving him feeling oddly shaken.

She sees his look and rolls her eyes. "It's no big deal."

He prefers anger over this feeling, like a string inside his chest that keeps vibrating to create something unbearable. "I'm sorry," he tells her, standing up. "I-I'll just head to bed."

He escapes the apartment, feeling the looks of his friends burning into his back as he leaves.  


	4. Chapter 3

Eventually Chandler's exhaustion transforms into something else.

It is the small things, mostly. Walking down a bustling Manhattan sidewalk during the rush hours, or the forced small-talk with colleagues that he never really cared about anyway. What a couple of days ago had drained him is becoming something else: small bursts of energy, a restless fluttering in his chest.

And just like that, Chandler's previous assumption that it would get easier with time turns out to have been grossly optimistic. If anything, it becomes harder to force himself to get out of bed in the mornings, even though he can't figure out *why*. There are no physical pains to bother him anymore, so he is incredibly impatient to just walk this whole damn thing off (an expression which he had hated his entire life).

He dreams, but nothing concrete, probably because he doesn't have many actual memories of the weekend. When he wakes up, its to panicked restlessness followed by disorientation and finally something heavy settling in his chest. Getting out of bed is tough, but staying there feels almost as bad.

And while Chandler has never really been much of a morning person, he has always managed well enough. Drink some coffee, eat some cereal or a bagel. Maybe even some eggs if he has time, and if Monica cooks, he'll eat anything and more. Now... his appetite is still not back, and it is the most prominent in the mornings. Furthermore, his gag reflex seems to have developed to superhuman sensitivity because after breakfast, he can't even brush his teeth without upsetting it. Nausea easily takes over, combining with the constant fluttering in his chest, to make him a quivering mess for a couple of minutes until he has to straighten his tie and head off to work.

Walk it off.

He's a mess and he knows it.

On the way home from work it hits him: it doesn't matter in which direction he is going. This panicked feeling will follow him either way.

It is snowing slowly, cold droplets of water melting into his hair, but despite the cold weather Chandler finds himself wiping cold sweat from his forehead, fingers twitching nervously. He is usually good at navigating the sidewalks, but, had people always bumped shoulders with him like this?

The world suddenly fades out, starting from the edges to his vision as his heart beats wildly in his chest and he doesn't know where to go or what to do with himself because it is like his own body is imploding with emotions.

He tries to force himself to breathe steadily. Slow inhale, pause, exhale. His throat feels thick, like he imagines asthma would affect a person.

The apartment is locked, which is both good and bad because he guesses it means that Joey is not home, which is good, but it forces him to struggle with the key, which is bad.

Finally inside, Chandler drops his briefcase on the floor and walks straight into his room, kicking his shoes off before getting onto his bed, tugging at his tie desperately. His sense of self seems lost somehow, the world not quite real, and he sinks onto his bed, curling in on himself. Inhale, exhale.

One small part of himself still manages to feel stupid. He doesn't even have a reason for breaking down like this, and yet here he is. A grown man (or at least, relatively grown, though at plus twenty-five, not yet thirty, Chandler still feels oddly wary of calling himself an adult) curled on the bed like a child throwing some sort of a tantrum.

Out of nowhere, it feels like someone has taken a hold of that wildly vibrating string inside his chest and  _pulled_  until the string feels razor sharp, taut inside him. He hears himself groan as the pain becomes prominent enough to become a concern; Chandler distantly wonders if he should be calling an emergency number. His hands had pulled into fists on their own accord and now he presses the knuckles against the sides of his head, trying to distract himself from the pain.

"Chandler?"

If his brain had been functioning properly, Chandler would have laughed. Of course Joey is home,  _of course_  he has picked up on Chandler's insistence to keep the door locked at all times. As it is, what he manages is to let out a breath of air, sounding suspiciously like a whimper.

There is a short knock on the door, then it opens. "Hey, what's- Chandler?"

Yeah, so crawling under the covers to hide probably won't help this situation, even though Chandler feels the urge to.

The bed dips. "You okay?" Joey sounds somewhat panicked.

A hand on his shoulder. Joey leaning closer, hovering over him and yeah, this position  _is_  familiar in the worst way possible.

Chandler doesn't even have time to think about it, scrambling backwards on the bed, all disgraceful, flailing movements.

"Whoa!"

He finds himself staring at a wide-eyed Joey, his hand still raised where it had been placed on Chandler's shoulder. At least it has snapped Chandler out of it. The sudden clarity of his vision is oddly disorienting.

"Sorry, Joe." His joints feel stiff; he has to force his fists to unclench. He clears his throat nervously. "I'm still not feeling very well."

Joey is generally quite gullible, but Chandler doesn't think even Joey will fall for that.

Joey looks at him with a guarded expression, slowly lowering his hand to the bed.

"You're scaring me, Chandler."

Chandler wants to say that he is fine, but somehow he doubts that Joey will agree with that now. He just, doesn't know anymore. He feels tired, like he's been running a marathon, minimum; that burst of energy had given way to the exhaustion. "I think I was having a-a panic attack."

"You  _think_?" Chandler winces at Joey's raised voice, leaning away from the anger. "I thought you were having a  _heart_ attack. Like, dying, man!" As Joey sees Chandler's wide eyes, he seems to force himself to calm down, taking a breath."Are you, okay? Did something happen?"

"No. No, I've had them since I was little." The lie slips out, automatic, and so easily he thinks he can almost convince himself it is the truth. "Like, the divorce and all." Embarrassing, sure, but not quite as embarrassing as, something else.

Joey looks hesitant at this revelation. "I'm sorry, man," he says finally, awkwardly.

Emotional heart to hearts aren't exactly their strong suit. Revealing weaknesses like these makes it worse, and even Joey seems to sense that this isn't the right moment to break the tension by offering to play a game of Foosball. Still, Joey remains seated on the bed, watching as Chandler slowly shrugs out of his work jacket. It's wrinkled now, as are his pants; he'll have to wear another suit to work tomorrow.

"You know," Joey says finally. He's looking at a spot on Chandler's bed covers. "When my sister Tina was having troubles, she went to see this shrink-"

Chandler grimaces at the word.

"Hey, she says it really helped her, okay?" Joey protests, even though he looks a bit embarrassed. It  _is_  a bit embarrassing. Joey probably doesn't like having broken friends.

"I haven't been to a shrink since I was a kid," Chandler finds himself admitting despite himself.

"See?" Joey looks at him carefully. "Maybe you could try it again?"

Chandler shakes his head uncomfortably. He hates psychologists. Even though the thing about panic attacks had been a lie, he  _had_  been sent to a psychologist a couple of times due to his 'aloof' behavior during his parents' divorce. The guy he had been talking to had been relentless; seeing through each of Chandler's childish attempts at faking nonchalance.

Still. He shrugs, avoiding Joey's eyes. "Yeah, maybe."

* * *

Since their phone book is currently being used to prop up the leg of Joey's uneven chest of drawers, Chandler decides to use the internet at work to do some research; after hours, because he really doesn't want to be caught with this. He's not completely sure exactly what he is looking for, but he starts looking at listings of psychologists in the area.

Yes, he hates shrinks with a passion, but, something has got to give. He's not exactly looking forsomeone to spill his innermost secrets to, but the idea of someone maybe recommending drugs, or  _something_ , is appealing. He doesn't particularly want medication, either, but if it can help him get out of bed in the mornings, maybe it isn't the worst thing in the world.

A few clicks later, Chandler finds himself staring at a couple of words, defiantly, even as his heart is beginning to race in a way that is becoming depressingly familiar.

He thinks about closing the page, then hesitates despite himself. He feels sick, nauseous.

Eventually, he clicks to print the page. He closes the window quickly, before hurrying away to the office printer to grab the papers the moment they are done.

He folds them twice before stuffing them in his briefcase and heading home.


	5. Chapter 4

Chandler doesn't look at the papers for several days, preferring to keep them tucked away in the depths of his briefcase and pretending that he had never printed them. Joey thankfully doesn't mention Chandler's embarrassing break-down either, but Chandler can feel that something has shifted in the way they interact. It is almost like Joey has somehow become aware of the changes Chandler has undergone lately. Chandler doesn't like it, but there is nothing he can do about it. If Chandler starts to enjoy the peace and quiet of his own room again, that has absolutely no correlation.

However, that one panic attack seems to use up the worst of his nervous energy, at least for the time being, and Chandler feels more balanced than he has in a while. When his heart starts to race in his chest, he manages to remain composed enough to learn something new: breathing. Somehow, his own breathing turns out to be one of the most comforting things in the world. It is almost like breathing is the key to his entire being, and when Chandler can control his breathing, he can control everything else as well.

Control is good.

It helps to keep the chaos of his nightmares bearable. His dreams are still vague, based mostly on feelings of claustrophobia and nausea, but some memories are beginning to trickle through, one flash at a time. No faces, but arms and hands that are rough but never violent. The absolute humiliation of having his pants pulled sloppily to his knees, and the inability to move to do anything about it. He wakes feeling panicked and confused and he has to take a moment to just  _breathe_.

Chandler can't control his subconscious, but keeping a tight rein on his conscious mind does compensate a little.

So by and large, the last couple of days have been relatively good. It stops snowing and the weather gets warmer, until the streets and sidewalks are almost dry. In anything, Chandler appreciates not getting his feet wet.

On his way from work one evening he even feels optimistic enough to head to Central Perk for the first time this week rather than directly home to hide in the apartment.

"And Joey is  _such_  a dog." Phoebe's voice floats towards him together with the warm air and familiar scents as Chandler closes the door behind him. It feels like it has been more than roughly a week since he was last here. A few years, at least. He shrugs out of his coat, making sure to grab his keys and wallet from the pockets before leaving it on one of the hangers by the door.

Everyone in the gang except Joey seems to be present, Chandler notes as he heads toward their regular table.

"I'm sure we all agree, Pheebs, but what has he done now?" he says as casually as he can mange, sitting down on the arm of the armchair that Monica is occupying. They all nod at him in greeting, and Chandler feels somewhat strengthened by the normality of both his and their behavior.

"No." Phoebe rolls her eyes at him, like Chandler is the stupidest person in the world. "We're talking about what animals we would all be. Joey is a total dog. Really nice, but predictable."

"And simple," Rachel adds, with something between a smile and a smirk; Ross nods in agreement.

"I'm a weasel," Phoebe states brightly, like she is saying something obvious.

"Of course you are," Chandler replies, not sure what else would be appropriate, making a bewildered face to convey his confusion to the rest of the guys.

He jumps when he feels a cool hand cover his own and looks down at Monica's amused face.

"We  _were_  discussing Joey's birthday party again, before we got side-tracked," she said. Chandler notices that a lock of her hair is in a disarray, and one part of him longs to smooth it out; another part that he doesn't quite recognize feels almost ashamed by the thought.

"We need someone to entertain him while we set things up in your apartment for the party," Monica continues obliviously. "You're our volunteer."

Chandler shrugs. He has already expected that, though he is not exactly thrilled by the prospect of spending several hours face to face with Joey right now. "What am I supposed to do with him?"

"I don't know, whatever you usually do when you go out?" Rachel says, wagging her eyebrows, her voice heavy with what Chandler thinks is somewhat corny double entendre.

"Oh ha ha, gay jokes. Funny." Chandler grimaces at her, even as he feels something prickle at his spine at the thought. He feels his good mood fade away, replaced with a sense of nervous unease.

"You're a porcupine," Phoebe says suddenly, pulling him out of his thoughts. They all blink at her, and Chandler shifts uncomfortably at the idea of him remaining in the center of the conversation.

"Why, Pheebs?" he asks warily. It doesn't sound like the most flattering animal, but Phoebe isn't exactly in the habit of flattering him, ever. He is used to it, however, and it usually doesn't bother him. Most of the time he gives as good as he gets.

"Porcupines are kind of cynical and sarcastic, but they don't  _mean_  to be mean," Phoebe says, as if what she is saying makes any sort of sense. "They just kind of accidentally sting people. And they're really private animals."

If the description is true of porcupines Chandler has no idea, but the description  _does_ prickle a bit at his already bruised self-esteem. He looks at the other guys, and they shrug.

"Don't look at me," Monica says comically, as if she can sense Chandler's mood and wants to cheer him up. "According to her, I'm a  _badger_."

He appreciates the effort, but it doesn't help much.

He stands up, remembering to grab his briefcase from the floor. "Well, as long as you don't bring out Rog the shrink guy again," he says, a bit more snidely than intended. Phoebe blinks at him innocently.

"You're leaving already?" Monica fingers at the end of his sleeve. "You haven't even had coffee yet."

He pulls away. "I'll catch you guys later."

As Chandler busies himself by the door, struggling to put his coat on, he hears Monica's voice from the armchair.

"...you shouldn't pick on him, you know he's been moody lately-"

Chandler steps out and closes the door on the words, not sure how he feels about them.

* * *

With all the distance that comes with growing up, Chandler now recognizes that his parents had married young. His childhood home had come with all the luxuries of having two parents from long lines of money, but his family life had come with all the distance that comes from the immaturity of two people not ready to take responsibility of another human life.

He knows that it may be weird, but Chandler had come to think of his home as having two separate realities. One reality had been his own, where he was a regular kid with a mother and a father that were experts at making him laugh until he would almost pee his pants, and who would shower him with gifts.

The other reality had been mostly at night, and didn't include him at all.

Chandler remembers waking up in the middle of the nights to distant beats of music. He would leave the reality of his own bedroom and wander down the corridor towards the other reality. He remembers being at eye-level of the doorknobs of all the closed doors he passed.

Finally the corridor would end by widening into a split staircase, both the right and left side leading down to the same room, the hallway. From upstairs, Chandler could peek down through the bars to watch the parties his parents would throw, never quite sure why the whole situation would make him so uneasy.

The music would be louder out here, steady, hypnotizing beats with no vocals. Chandler was used to seeing drunk people, but this often went beyond that. At these parties, Chandler had seen people walk around completely naked as if it was completely normal, and kiss several people at once, it seemed. He had even seen two half-naked men pee into the potted palm trees that were placed on either sides of the front door, and his mother yelling at them afterward.

It  _was_  another reality, one that his mind couldn't process or understand until many years later, but the unease still follows him, like a bruise that refuses to fade. When Chandler had satisfied his curiosity for the time being, he would pad back to his own bed again, pulling the covers over his head to block out the music.

Twenty years later, Chandler finds himself waking up in the mornings with no idea what reality he is in anymore.

* * *

Chandler realizes that he never did get the details of the surprise party from the guys, so he decides to stop by at Monica's apartment before he heads to work. For some reason, Joey is up early for once, so Chandler waits until he hears the shower running before he heads over. This turns out to be a good thing, however, because Rachel has gone to work by the time he enters the apartment, and Chandler generally feels more at ease when it is just Monica.

Monica looks up from the dishes as he enters. "Hey. Want breakfast?"

"Nah, I already ate."

Monica looks at him, almost sharply. "You're starting to look thin."

It actually had been a lie, because Joey had occupied the kitchen this morning, and it is not like Chandler had been very into food lately, either way. Still, Monica doesn't need to know that.

He shrugs, setting his briefcase on the floor by the door and heading to the kitchen table to sit down. "I just wanted the details on the party."

Monica finishes the dishes as she tells him, and continues poking about in the kitchen to produce a cup of coffee for him without asking him if he wants any. He absently sips at it, comforted by the familiar sounds. Sometimes, Chandler can almost miss the early days, before either of them had gotten roommates. It had just been the two of them, starved enough for company to want to hang out despite their awkward introductions.

The newspaper lies open on the table. He glances at the half-finished crossword as he listens.

"Oh, and you owe us thirty bucks for snacks and decorations," Monica finishes, sitting down across from him at the table.

"Help yourself." He gestures towards his briefcase by the door. He is pretty sure that eleven across is 'erato'.

He can almost hear Monica grimace at his laziness, but she stands to fetch the briefcase nonetheless, searching through it for his wallet.

A few moments later, the silence puzzles him. He lifts his head from the crossword, ready to ask, but the words die in his throat. Monica is standing by the table, his own briefcase lying open. She is looking through a wad of regular A4 papers that had been folded, now looking somewhat worn from being carried around in his bag for so long.

Chandler feels something almost unbearable well up in his chest until it physically hurts. He can't move.

Monica looks up at him hesitantly, almost timidly, which is an odd look on her. Chandler instantly hates it.

"Chandler, what's this?"

She holds up the papers and he can't look away. Instead he is forced to stare at the headline on the first page, words that he had avoided for several days now.

It says, simply, "Rape Therapy".


	6. Chapter 5

That word.

Seeing it is like a slap in the face, but it is the way Monica looks at him that makes it feels like he has been plunged into something dark and cold, his chest and throat tightening and squeezing the air from his lungs.

In a detached sense, Chandler can think of a million things to say. The words flutter through his mind in a panicked haze, but only a few words here and there actually land in his conscious mind. This feeling in itself is not that uncommon for him. He has always had a terrible case of the foot in mouth syndrome, and an even worse track record of making up lies to cover it.

What is less common is the magnitude of the burst of panicked energy that follows. It drags him up from the dark, but leaves him unbearably jittery and unsure what to do with himself.

"Chandler?" Monica looks concerned now, and he hates the way she is looking at him, fully concentrated on him.

"Um," he says slowly, trying to steady his breathing; he exhales carefully to try and bring himself back into the land of non-pathetic people. "Nothing special."

Monica raises her eyebrows, the concern morphing into something odd that Chandler can't quite place. He looks down to avoid her gaze and realizes that he is still holding the pencil, hand hovering over the crossword. He doesn't remember what he had been planning to write anymore.

He drops it and stands up. "Work. Gotta head to. Uhm. Work."

He determinedly avoids looking at Monica as he walks towards the door, grabbing the briefcase as he passes her. From the corner of his eye, he can see her opening her mouth and closing it again.

"See you." Chandler tries for a light tone that comes out sounding entirely too casual, his eyes flickering to meet Monica's startled ones for just a second before he closes the door behind him.

It takes over ten minutes of fast-paced walking down the street before his heartbeat slows down and his thoughts stop rushing through his head at an unnatural speed, and he promptly realizes two things.

First off, he had accidentally walked right past his usual subway station and was at least fifteen minutes from the next one.

Secondarily, Chandler's coat is still hanging where he had left it in Monica's apartment.

Thankfully, the weather is still relatively mild, but it is still very much winter and as Chandler's muscles start to relax he can feel the cold starting to seep through his gray suit jacket. He slows down, hesitating and feeling slightly ridiculous surrounded by all the heavily dressed people on the sidewalk.

Heading back to Monica's doesn't feel like much of an option. His stomach churns at the mere thought, even as he tries to shake it off. He is overreacting, but his body's responses are difficult to control.

Chandler doesn't want to think about Monica. He knows that he can't possibly avoid her forever, as little as he can keep avoiding Joey, and he is being ridiculous because it's not like either of them  _really_  know anything. Still, the thought gives him a feeling of being trapped; trapped in his own body, trapped in his own life and with no way of getting out of it all.

It doesn't matter how much he keeps telling himself to just forget about it. Flashes of memories seem to stubbornly push through his attempt at mental walls. Even as he learns to control some of his physical responses, his body seems to come up with new ways to take over.

Half the time, Chandler doesn't even recognize himself anymore.

With Joey knowing that something is up, and Monica certainly suspecting something more (unless he can settle on a good enough lie to tell her), Chandler can feel yet another bit of his life spiraling out of control.

The hopelessness of it all almost stuns him; he stops walking completely, barely noticing the woman behind him that grumbles at his sudden halt and walks around him. It is the same kind of hopelessness that he had felt the other day, but this time it drains him.

It's the cold that forces him out of it. His muscles has tensed again, in an attempt to keep from losing heat, or to avoid shivering, he is not quite sure. Either way, his head clears slightly. He can still take it one step at a time. Get out of the cold. Go to work.

Don't think.

* * *

After an entire day at the office licking his proverbial wounds, Chandler feels that he has at least

semi-successfully collected himself enough to feel silly for the way he had reacted this morning. So Monica had seen some stuff; it doesn't  _mean_  anything. Nothing really has to mean anything, unless he allows it to.

On the downside, the evening air seems to bring a new cold front to the city and Chandler feels half-frozen when he walks up the stairs to the apartment, carefully clutching his bag under one elbow as he blows into his hands in an attempt to warm them up.

The apartment is silent and dark as he opens the door, which momentarily surprises him until he remembers that it is the evening for Joey's acting classes. Thank heavens for small graces.

Typically, Chandler doesn't even have time to change out of his suit as there is a knock on the door. He spins around, annoyed, and peers through the peep hole to see Monica's familiar face on the other side of the door.

He sighs heavily, wondering about his chances to simply pretend that he is not at home. The fact that she had knocked so soon after he had gotten home, however, probably means that she had heard him enter the apartment.

"I know you're in there!"

As he had expected then. Chandler rolls his eyes, takes a moment to breathe slowly to prevent his heart from sinking to that dark place again, and opens the door. "Hey, what's up?"

Monica ignores his greeting and walks straight ahead, forcing him to step aside and let her in. She has his coat draped over one arm; in her hand, however, she is clutching some familiar looking papers. Chandler winces.

"You forgot your coat," Monica says, sounding almost frighteningly light-hearted.

He takes it from her. "Yeah. Been getting warmer lately you know?" He forces a smile, aware that his nose and cheeks are probably still bright red from the cold.

She stares at him for a moment, then slaps the papers onto the kitchen counter. Chandler jumps, surprised by the force behind the movement.

"Are you hungry?"

He blinks at her. "Excuse me?"

"I'll fix us some dinner," Monica says, spinning around to face the kitchen area.

"No, I'm fine." Chandler watches his protest go unnoticed as she digs through the half-empty fridge. He feels somewhat disconcerted by this turn of events. His stomach betrays him by growling, but Monica doesn't seem to notice.

A few minutes later he finds himself sitting in one of the bar stools by the kitchen counter, watching as Monica whips up some fancy version of an omelet from the few ingredients that she had found in their fridge. The papers are still resting on the kitchen counter and he carefully doesn't look at them.

He tries in vain to identify this situation. It feels almost like one of those occurrences when he and Monica has been comforting each other after some nasty break-up, except this time there is a definite tension in the room that is unfamiliar. Monica seems determined, but perhaps also somewhat uncomfortable, focusing completely on her cooking. It's not as bad as it could be, Chandler supposes, though he can feel darkness lurking beneath his own somewhat composed surface.

"I looked through the papers," Monica tells the frying pan, casually.

Chandler inhales slowly. This is the moment where he should deny everything, he knows. He had lied to Joey a couple of days ago. He had lied this morning.

Why is it suddenly so difficult?

"Yeah?" he hears himself say instead, quietly, his heart beating faster and faster.

Monica pokes at the omelet with the spatula (she had washed it twice before using it). "They're good. I thought there were some interesting stuff there."

"Yeah?" he says again, awkwardly, eyes flickering between the counter and Monica's profile in the kitchen. Monica nods and uses the spatula to check the underside of the omelet. She seems satisfied, turning the heat off and spreading some chopped olives over it before cutting it in half and letting the halves slide onto the two plates that she had grabbed from the cupboard.

"Mm, I never knew there were so many types of therapy nowadays." She walks over to put one of the plates in front of him. "Group therapy, one-on-one, cognitive, supportive..." she trails off and seems to hesitate. "You've been acting weird lately."

Chandler shrinks away from the direct accusation, but Monica's eyes are concerned, nothing more. He had thought that he would find sympathy to be sickening, but instead it feels almost like a relief. Embarrassingly, he feels his throat ache and he blinks, as if that would keep them from burning.

"Yeah, I." He pauses, looking away and clearing his throat. "I haven't been feeling well lately."

Monica nods sadly. "We've been worried about you. Well, Joey and I have at least."

"Joey?" Chandler looks up in alarm.

She leans away slightly, appearing somewhat surprised by his reaction. "Yeah. He mentioned that he thought you were acting, well, off."

"I see." Chandler is not sure if he should be relieved, or annoyed at the revelation that they had been talking about him. He frowns at the omelet, poking at it with his fork, wondering how wise it would be of him to attempt to eat right now. His stomach is not his friend at the moment.

They sit in silence for a couple of minutes. Monica eats quietly while Chandler moves the food around on the plate halfheartedly. He feels like they are both waiting for something, though he is not sure what exactly.

It comes when Monica finished eating, putting her cutlery down on the plate with a slight clatter.

"So, when...?" she says, very carefully, her eyes flickering between his face and some undefined spot to the left of his head.

Chandler looks away, aware of what she is trying to ask. He feels like he will choke if he tries to say anything, and so, he stays quiet, shrugging in response.

He doesn't realize what the lack of denial implies until it is too late, and Monica is looking at him with a face so sad that it is almost unbearable. She reaches out to finger at the papers hesitantly for a moment before pushing them closer to him. He stares at the words in the headline. He hates those words.

"Have you considered any of this?"

He shrugs again, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. "Haven't read it."

"There are specialists for this," Monica continues. "There's a lot of information-"

Chandler had already figured as much. The thing is, he doesn't want to think about it. At all. He wants to forget about it.

He wants it to never have happened at all.

Helplessly, he shrugs again.

"I'm just saying, maybe it helps."

_Help?_  Chandler's mind goes blank as he tries to process a new feeling of... perhaps it is disbelief?

Or anger.

He bites down on it, ashamed of the feeling. He knows that Monica wants to help. She may be bossy, or uncertain about it, but he  _knows_  that she cares, of course he does. He takes a steadying breath.

"Can we...  _please_ not talk about this?"

She frowns at him momentarily, an expression that is very familiar to anyone that has ever dared to argue with her. A moment later she nods, and stands up to take the dishes, making no comment on the mess that Chandler has made of his food. He scratches his head, somewhat embarrassed but very relieved.

"So, Rachel isn't home," Monica says over the sound of the water pouring over the dishes. "Want to watch a movie?"

Chandler think about it. Part of wants nothing more than to be alone and work out his own scrambled feelings. Another part is desperate to fix this tension between them, and it turns out he can't resist.

"Die Hard?" he says hopefully.

She raises her upper lip in disgust. "Annie."

Chandler pauses. "You don't like Annie."

"No, but  _you_  do."

He is obligated to protest, of course, but he feels himself relax ever so slightly.


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks for all the kudos/comments I've received lately. Not sure what caused the influx, but it really makes my day when I hear from a reader. :) Also, just to make sure there are no misunderstandings, the story is also crossposted to ff.net under my old username "Maaya".
> 
> Also, I'm kind of working with the idea that this story is set in the first season (though I avoided setting a definite timeframe to keep it open). But it is definitely early on, and thus, in the early/mid-nineties.

"Dude, you were  _just_  sick." Ross eyes him incredulously.

Chandler makes a face at him from where he is seated by the kitchen table, one of Monica's decorative, yet, as it turns out, nicely warm blankets draped over his shoulders. In the periphery of his vision he can see Monica give him a look that makes him suspect that she is trying her hardest not to appear smug. He sighs into his cup of tea, then sniffs, annoyed with his stuffed nose.

It turns out walking around without a coat in the middle of the winter is not the best idea that Chandler has ever had. That, combined with the fact that life has a tendency to kick him when he is already down, apparently results in him coming down with a cold. Thankfully, it is not on the level of Joey's recent flu. It is more of an inconvenience, if anything, but still bad enough to be frustrating.

"Your point?" he says, fully aware that his bitchiness will be excused by his illness. Maybe his tone comes out a bit more venomous than intended, though, because Ross simply holds up his hands in a placating gesture.

Monica stands up. "More tea?"

Chandler shrugs. "No thanks."

It turns out, with Monica  _knowing_  knowing, she doesn't seem to be entirely certain of how to act around him. One moment she will be a mother hen and overly casual. The other, mostly in private, she will seem uncertain, almost shy. She reaches out to him carefully and appears frightened to offend him. Sometimes Chandler appreciates it, even enjoys it. It is nice to be around someone who takes him for what he is without judging, and she does make it clear that she is there for him, no matter what. Someone who can take note of when regular noises and movements suddenly feel overwhelming for him for no reason at all and can cover for him.

A lot of the time, however, he finds it embarrassing.

It makes him hate the thought of how much his daily routines have changed in the last few weeks. It is probably a pride thing, he thinks. With everything Monica already knows about him, he can't seem to stand the thought of more reasons for her to see him as weak. He wants to show her that it's  _no big deal_.

Thus he finds himself making an effort to take back the small details of his daily life. He spends more time at Central Perk again, and makes a point of grabbing breakfast at Monica's place in the mornings before work. It is surprisingly okay. The familiar routine is mostly welcome even as he feels somewhat distanced from it in a way he has never experienced before. Their regular small-talk feels less important. The small quirks and habits of his friends seem a little more annoying.

He can deal with that.

What Chandler still can't quite get over is his interaction with Joey. It is entirely too personal and a bit awkward. He is not sure if Joey and Monica have talked about him lately, and the idea bugs him, makes him unsure how he should really behave around his best friend.

He glances at his watch and sighs again. "Well, I have to get to work."

"Me too." Ross steals a piece of bacon from the frying pan. "I'll walk with you."

They shrug into their coats, say goodbye to Monica and head down towards the stairs together.

"So," Ross says conversationally as they step outside. "I got free tickets in the draw, so I was going to ask if you were feeling up for a Rangers game, but if you're sick..."

"Yeah," Chandler says, relieved at having an excuse. A hockey game feels somewhat rowdier than he really likes right now. "Not feeling up for it, sorry."

"No problem, I'll ask Joey instead."

At Ross' bus stop they part ways, but not before Ross briefly rests a hand on his shoulder. "Feel better soon, dude."

For one short moment Chandler feels a pang of panic at an irrational thought that Monica would betray his confidence. One single look at Ross' sincere face helps him beat the feeling down. He smiles in return, a little embarrassed, but appreciative of the gesture nonetheless.

* * *

 

His cold only lasts for a couple of days, but when it starts to get better, Chandler bizarrely ends up missing it. The illness had ended up having the nice side-effect of knocking him out in the evenings, making his sleep blissfully heavy. He hadn't realized how restlessly he had been sleeping for the last couple of weeks until he got something to compare it with.

Even with no concrete nightmares to speak of most of the time, knots of undefined stress and worry in his stomach had been making him toss and turn at night and; even with the official eight hours of 'sleep', he now suspects that they had only included only an hour or two of actual deep sleep. No wonder he had been feeling so exhausted.

Well, he thinks. At least it is nice to have an explanation.

* * *

The air in the coffee house is almost sweltering. All the tables are occupied and the heat from all the people, combined with the moisture from outside makes the room uncharacteristically unpleasant.

Ross is happily going on about a new mass spectrometer or whatever; Chandler listens with half-lidded eyes and he is pretty sure that Monica is as well. Phoebe is asleep, if the light snore from her direction is any indication. She always had been good at sleeping in public places.

The time seems to be moving extremely slow, though that may also be due to what Chandler knows is waiting. He had cautiously been going through his printed information lately, scoffing at most of it, but there is one suggestion he rationally knows that he can't deal with on his own.

He has never been overly bothered by doctors or hospitals, viewing them as a necessary evil, but he expects that the coming appointment may be a little more invasive than he is used to. He tries not to shudder at the thought.

He jumps in surprise when Phoebe suddenly shudders in his place and wakes up, and blinking at them all. "Ugh.  _Bad_  dream." She seems to recover at record speed, looking around at them all, almost accusingly, unaware of Ross' insulted expression at the revelation that she had been sleeping through his lecture, before zeroing in on him. "Chandler, your aura is  _terrible._ Stop infecting my space _._ "

He scowls at her, annoyed by the attention she has been giving him lately. "What, worse than yesterday? Because that's when Ross gave us this tirade for the  _first_ time."

Phoebe looks a little taken aback, forming her lips into an 'o'-shape.

His anger melting away immediately, Chandler guiltily sees Ross' face take on an injured expression. "Sorry, man."

The tension remains among them even as Phoebe starts to describe her dream. Chandler half-listens for a few minutes before he stands and grabs his coat, eager to get away. "Well, gotta go."

"Where?" Thankfully, there is no malice in Ross' voice. "It's only five."

"Uh." Chandler fumbles for a good excuse. "I need to, uh, find a present for Joey."

"You haven't done that?" Monica makes a face like this is somehow a federal offense. "The party is this weekend!"

Chandler waves away her concern as he warms into the lie. "It's fine, I know what to get."

He falters when Monica stands up as well. "I'll go with you. I need to buy some wrapping paper anyway."

Chandler nods and waits patiently for her to adjust her scarf, even as he is inwardly cursing. They step out into the cold bustle of the street together. As they begin to walk down the street, Chandler fiddles with some forgotten receipt in his pocket as he wonders how to get away from this. He steals a glance at Monica's profile; her normally pale cheeks and nose are already turning red from the cold.

"Hey" Monica says after a moment, slowing down. "We're going in the wrong direction."

Chandler clears his throat, giving up on finding an excuse. "Yeah, so I've already gotten Joey a gift. I only said that to get out of there."

"Oh." She hesitates, tries to be casual. "You okay?"

She seems to ask this every time they're alone together. Chandler swallows the frustration that rises in his throat and nods. "Yeah, I just... have an appointment."

She looks at him quizzically.

"For an STD-screen," he grinds out, embarrassed, feeling his cheeks heat up.

"Oh," Monica says, confused, then her eyes widen and she looks mildly mortified. " _Oh_."

There is an awkward pause as a range of expressions passes over Monica's face, from horrified to sad to a sympathy that feels so overwhelming that Chandler can't stand to look at it. His entire body is itching with the need to break the silence, but his head refuses to give him even the lamest of quips.

"Well," Monica says after a moment, with forced cheer. "That's not so bad. I've..." She stops herself and Chandler thinks she may be flushing, though it's difficult to tell from her already reddened cheeks. "Well, they're not that bad. At least it doesn't hurt or anything."

Chandler knows it terrible of him, but her embarrassment serves to relax him somewhat. "Well, it's worse for guys, okay?"

"No it's not." She rolls her eyes, but seems to be as relieved he is to slip into their usual bantering, instead of that, other, awkward way of interacting.

"Um,  _yes_." Chandler makes a gesture with his hands to try and drive the point home, but ends up accidentally slapping the hat off the head of some woman on the sidewalk. She manages to catch it in her arms, but she still glares at him. It effectively calms him down; he clears his throat awkwardly.

Monica looks somewhat amused, but sobers quickly. "Want company?"

Chandler pauses, surprised. His instinctive response is no, but he is surprised to note that the thought doesn't make his body protest with some nervous reaction or another. Now that Monica knows, maybe it is not possible for things to get any worse.

"If you seriously have nothing better to do," he says, simply.

* * *

Chandler has never before been relieved to be faced with a female nurse in a medical situation that involves taking off his pants, but the revelation releases a weight from his chest that he hadn't known he was carrying around. Even so, the procedure is as uncomfortable as he had anticipated.

Discomfort swells in his chest like a balloon until his heartbeat speeds up, but it's difficult to discern what comes from the general discomfort of someone doing  _that_ to him in a brightly lit hospital roomand what comes from, something else. Thankfully, the businesslike manners of the nurse keeps him grounded, so Chandler grits his teeth and endures.

While he gets dressed again, the nurse prepares a syringe to take the blood sample. Once he sits down to roll up his sleeve, she gives him a once-over; Chandler raises his eyebrows at her almost haughty expression. "Do you wish to include an HIV test in the screen, Mr. Bing?" she asks.

He's not sure why the question catches him off-guard. Perhaps it's the pure stigma still attached to the word. He feels hot embarrassment shoot through his body as he understands the the implication of the look and question.

Chandler had spent enough summers with his father's circle of friends in Las Vegas in the eighties to have seen the illness first hand. And even as he had grown older and tried to distance himself from the gay crowd, it had been impossible not to catch the tension in the community at the time the outbreak started to become known.

He swallows, but can't get rid of the lump in his throat. "Uh, sure."

The nurse nods. "Do you wish for it to be done anonymously or not? If that is the case, we need to treat it as a separate case."

"No, that's okay." The part of his mind that seems determined to remain eerily rational while the rest of Chandler is freaking out points out that if the worst comes to worst, it will eventually have to end up in his personal records anyway. Not to mention that he has a pretty good insurance.

The nurse nods again and makes another note in her papers, before taking the blood sample with practiced hands. Depending on the time of his suspected exposure, he will have to take another test within a few months, she tells him, but asks no more questions.

Chandler fixes his tie as he walks out of the room despite the fact that it had never been undone; it feels like some futile attempt to regain his dignity. Worry is worming in his stomach in a way it hadn't as he walked into the room. Before, the screening had felt more like a routine, like he was following a check-list without giving a thought to neither the reason nor the consequences of it.

He had almost forgotten that Monica would be waiting for him. She is sitting in the waiting room, thumbing through some leaflet. She drops it on the table and stands up when she sees him emerge.

"Hey, how did it go?"

"Eh," he says, shrugging tiredly. "Fine."


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry about the slow update! My thesis ate my life. Here is the last chapter however, only the epilogue to go after this.

On the morning of Joey's birthday party Chandler wakes up with a headache and a feeling like a cold stone in his upper stomach area. Getting out of bed is not quite as hard as remaining there because the feeling of a nightmare lingers, but it is still a chore that leaves him with very little energy to spare. He showers and eats breakfast on autopilot.

When he gets home from work he is still in a more or less pissy mood and he still doesn't have a solid plan for how to get Joey out of the apartment in time for Monica to take over with the party preparations. On top of that, Joey seems intent on what seems like some sort of avoidance routine, acting almost like a sulky child. Chandler knows that he hasn't been the best of friend to Joey lately (a pang of guilt in his chest) but  _come on_.

Finally Chandler panics and manages to drag Joey away from a misguided but very focused attempt at making his own toffee by suggesting that they go out and catch a movie. Joey looks up, somewhat surprised by the outburst, but eventually agrees with a somewhat awkward but also pleased smile.

When he asks if this is about his surprise birthday party, Chandler doesn't even have the energy to deny.

Joey promises to act surprised.

It turns out they are in luck because the movie theater is showing old classics, so they catch a showing of one of Joey's favorite movies. Chandler enjoys it too, in that comfortingly familiar sort of way. Even so, the flickering lights from the screen only serve to bring back his headache from this morning and for some reason he can't manage to shake off an unexplainable sense of unease that has lodged itself deep in his chest.

After stepping out of the movie theater they walk in silence for a while, taking care to avoid the puddles of melted snow.

Chandler is so fed up with this winter.

"So, the hospital called," Joey says after a moment, an odd tone to his voice. When Chandler looks up, Joey doesn't meet his eyes. His face is very neutral. "They said, uh, that there had been some mix-up. Or accident with your samples. Whatever. You need to go down there and take another test."

Of all the things that Chandler had not expected him to say.

He takes a breath, tries to keep his thoughts from scattering in panic. "Why, exactly, did they tell  _you_ this?"

Joey's cheeks turn a little pink. "I might have said I was you."

Chandler doesn't know why he is surprised because it is such a Joey thing to do. Still. " _Why_?"

Joey shrugs, looking almost like a chastened child. "Acting practice. I mean, I got to take the opportunities where I get them, you know?"

"No, I don't know!" Chandler takes another breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. The headache is getting worse, and he really can't deal with this right now. He understands now why Joey had been acting so distant earlier. It hadn't been a fornlorn response to Chandler's avoidance. It had been out guilt.

"Why are you so upset anyway? There's nothing wrong with getting tested… I do it regularly!" Joey waves his hands, exasperated. I mean, not for HIV, but…" He finally meets Chandler's eyes, and what he sees there makes him shut up.

How much information had Joey seen fit to weasel out of them, exactly? Chandler can't help it; he feels his chest hollow out, all his feelings seeming to collect into one tiny, hard seed. "That is none of your business."

"Is this why you've been so tense lately? With the-" Joey makes some nonsensical gesture with his hand and Chandler knows that he just wants to avoid saying something like 'panic attack' because words like that are embarrassing to say out loud. "Because I'm telling you, I'm sure you're okay. You haven't slept with that many girls; the chances are like, zero point never."

Chandler doesn't know how he can feel so angry and so empty at the same time. It is confusing, and it hurts, both physically and mentally. "Shut up."

"Seriously, you're overreacting-"

The seed bursts. "You don't know  _anything_." Chandler can't breathe. He can't even really focus his eyes on anything. "So just shut  _up_!"

Joey takes a step backwards, wide-eyed. "Fine. I'm sorry."

They stare at each other for a moment. Chandler regains his ability to breathe, feeling the tension seep out of him and leaving him exhausted. He doesn't know how to deal with this. They are only a couple of hundred meters from the apartment, and he can't imagine anything worse than stepping inside, faking a party-mood and making small-talk with their friends and acquaintances.

He also can't exactly ruin everything. After all their planning, Monica would  _kill_  him. He sighs. "Let's go back."

Joey eyes him warily. "Yeah."

The walk back is awkward, at best. After climbing the stairs, Chandler stops outside the closed door to their apartment and tries to offer a smile. A peace-offering. "Ready?"

Joey nods. There is still awkward tension in the air between them, but he does seem to loosen up a bit to jittery excitement as well. Chandler nudges him forward to open the door.

The resounding cries of 'surprise' and variations thereof rattle Chandler's already frayed nerves, despite the fact that he had known they were coming. He is thankful that the focus is on Joey, staying in the background and watching Joey try to pretend to be surprised (and utterly failing) while accepting all the birthday gratulations. He slides inside discreetly, avoiding the final look that Joey throws his way.

Once the initial excitement of the surprise has calmed, Chandler finds himself sticking to the edges and walls of the apartment. He feels somehow lopsided and isn't sure how to find his center again. A group of guys that he knows only as aquaintances begin to roar with laughter for whatever reason, and that simple sound makes him break out in a sweat.

It is only when the edges of his vision starts getting blurry that he realizes what is happening. His chest feels like it is squeezing together relentlessly. He tries to clear his throat, fingering at his collar nervously. He is not sure why it is happening now, but he knows that he can't allow it to. The apartment is full of people, his own room is probably filled with people's coats, or kissing couples that want privacy or whatever. He fumbles behind him, finding the edge of the kitchen counter and leans back against it, trying to keep his breathing steady and calm.

"Chandler?" Monica appears in his field of vision, but both her voice and face appear somehow distant. "You look pale."

He opens his mouth to reply, but can't seem to find his voice. He pushes away from the counter, but it turns out to be a bad idea. The lack of support makes it feel like he is falling. Panic storms in his chest.

"Chandler?"

He does the only thing he can think of and flees the apartment, uncapable of considering ego or discretion. He can feel Monica's presence behind him more than he sees or hears her; he fumbles with the door handle and prays that the girls' apartment will be unlocked and empty.

Thankfully, it is both. Even as Monica carefully closes the door behind them, Chandler can still hear the sounds from the party across the hall, but they are muffled and distant and the privacy envelopes him in a disorienting contrast.

It is like the floor is falling beneath his feet.

Chandler somehow finds himself sitting, hunched over on the couch. He can hear Monica talk to him, sounding panicked, and he thinks she might have been the one to guide his head down beneath his knees.

He can hear Joey's voice join Monica's and almost moans, frustrated that more people will be seeing him like this. Every single muscle in his body is tense, almost like his body is trying to regain control of the turbulence inside him, but it only serves to make him feel stiff, clumsy.

The attack fades slowly, the pressure easing from his chest. After a while, Chandler begins to feel grounded, disoriented, and completely, utterly exhausted. Monica's hand is in his hair, he realizes, and the feeling is both terrible and wonderful, soothing and upsetting. Horrifyingly, it makes him choke up, like a tired, emotional child, and it takes everything he has to keep himself from sobbing.

Chandler takes a moment to just breathe before reluctantly sitting up. His muscles protest against the movement.

Three sets of eyes on him makes part of him want to shrink back and hide, but mostly, he is too tired to have the energy to care as much as he should. He doesn't know when Ross had entered, but he is hovering on the other side of the room so it may be that he had been in the bathroom.

"You okay?" Monica's voice is a mixture of worry and confusion, and Chandler doesn't know what to say so he rubs his temples to try and get rid of the tension-induced headache.

When Monica repeats her question he pulls away from her. "Yeah."

"Joey says this has happened before," she says, quietly.

Chandler glances up at him, but Joey's face shows nothing but concern. "Yeah," he mutters, again.

"What is going on?" Ross' bewildered and worried voice breaks into the moment. "Did something happen?"

Monica and Joey seem to hesitate, letting Chandler decide how to explain He would have appreciated it more if he had actually had any idea what to say. Of the three of them, Monica is the only one to actually know most of the truth, and the various stages of knowledge among them all is like a headache in itself. Even Monica doesn't know everything, and most of what she thinks she knows is probably what she has filled out in her own head. Chandler looks at them all and suddenly feels lonely.

It doesn't matter what he says, how much they know, not really. They don't have the capacity to understand, and he is happy about that, he really is, because no one should be able to, but the feeling of isolation that comes over him is overwhelming.

He can tell them everything, he thinks. He can tell them exactly how pathethic he feels  _all the time_ , and how stupid reasons can send him into full-blown anxiety attacks. How he can feel both his mind and body spiraling out of control.

He can tell them all of this, and it still wouldn't help at all.

"Yeah," he says to Ross' question, then, "no. Just not feeling well."

He catches Monica giving him an annoyed look and feels himself getting angry in return.

"Not feeling well." Ross sounds incredulous. "This looked like a bit more than that."

Chandler rubs at his temples again. "It's private, okay? I promise I'm not, dying or anything."

Joey comes over with a glass of water, which is surprisingly insightful coming from him. Chandler takes it awkwardly. "You should get back to your party."

Joey shrugs, disinterested. "In a bit." He seems subdued, thoughtful and oddly guilty. "You know, if there's anything we can do-"

Chandler shakes his head. "No." He pauses. "But thanks."

His body feels sore, like he had done an extremely intense workout the day before. His friends seem to be unsure what to do, their eyes shifting from him to each other. Monica is still rubbing his back in small, light circles. "Go back to the party," he tells them. "I'm fine now."

When they seem to hesitate, he rolls his eyes, straightening his back. Monica stops rubbing it. "I want a moment,  _please_."

At his his annoyed tone of voice they finally shuffle out, Monica hesitating, but at the last minute she leans down to kiss his forehead, ruffling his hair like a kid before leaving him alone. The tenderness gives him a pang in his chest and Chandler can't identify if it's a good feeling or not.

* * *

Chandler doesn't know how much time passes as he rests on the couch, leaned back with his head tilted back as he tries to get his sore muscles to relax. It gives him time to think, but he simply doesn't know what to feel about anything anymore.

Instead, one simple thought enters his mind and once it has taken hold of him, Chandler can't seem to shake it away. The craving starts somewhere in his chest as he longs for the slow, controlled inhalation and exhalation. It proceeds to his mouth, and his fingers, until all he really wants from the world is a cigarette.

He frowns at the ceiling.

He doesn't keep any cigarettes at home anymore, not after the last time he had quit. He briefly considers just  _not_ giving in to the urge, but gives up after an embarrassingly short moment. There had been cigarettes on the kitchen counter, moments before his mind had decided to deteriorate on him.

Thank heavens for party smokers.

It hurts to stand up. He slips into the other apartment as discreetly as he can manage, and thankfully no one seems to take notice of him. Music is playing, people are dancing, drinking, chatting. The pack of cigarettes is still resting on the counter and Chandler unashamdely grabs it and his own jacket before slipping outside again.

He knows from previous experience that Monica dislikes him smoking on her balcony because she says it dirties the windows. Having the comforting backdrop of the lit apartment feels to enticing to ignore, however, so Chandler finds himself climbing over the ledge of the window.

The cold night turns his breath into a white cloud before he even lights the first cigarette. He fumbles around in his pockets for a moment, locating the lighter, then closes his eyes as he takes the first drag. It is heaven. It's not his brand, it's even some flavoured crap that he normally wouldn't look twice at, but right this moment, it is heaven. It is like a little piece of himself is handed back to him.

He considers that for a moment as he allows the winter chill to numb him.

It feels like he hasn't been himself for some time now. Even as he goes through the motions, every little thing he does feels like it is performed on autopilot; pure instinct. He doesn't know, exactly, what the difference is, but something certainly is missing.

"Normally I'd shout at you for smoking," a familiar voice says from his left. "But I'll let it slide this one time."

Chandler turns his head to watch Monica, surprisingly nimble in her long dress, slip through the window to join him on the balcony. "I thought I told you to go back to the party."

She shrugs. "I thought I told  _you_  that I would kick your ass if you got my windows dirty again."

Chandler snorts, even though he knows the threat is probably quite serious.

Suddenly he feels lonely again.

Even now when it is just him and Monica, standing close together and talking, Chandler can't feel the warmth from their friendship the way he used to. That realization, more than anything else tonight, more than the haltering conversations with Joey, even more than the humiliating loss of control he had felt earlier and how his friends had seen it, spreads a humbling chill in his chest.

He exhales, thoughtfully watching the smoke easily spread in the air and fade away.

"Listen," Monica begins, somehow sounding hesitant and determined at the same time. Her hand carefully touches his free hand, and when he doesn't pull away, holds it. They're both cold. "We're worried, okay? I get that you feel your pride is hurt or something, or that you're embarrassed, but I don't  _care_  about that. I'm just  _worried_."

Chandler doesn't look at her as he listens, instead focusing on stubbing the cigarette out against the brick wall of the building, letting it fall to the ground. He can feel Monica's eyes on his face, studying him.

"I think you need  _help._ "

It is, oddly, a relief to hear her say it. It means that he doesn't have to.

He very nearly smiles as everything inside him seems to settle for a moment. "Yeah."

"I think-" Monica pauses. "...What?"

He lets out another breath, already missing the cigarette, despite the flavour. He should tell Joey to find new friends, because seriously? The stuff should be banned. "You're right, okay? You and Joey. I'll begin looking for a," he forces the word out, still unable to keep from rolling his eyes a little. " _shrink_ on Monday."

Monica looks at him in surprise. "Man, I had a whole  _speech_  planned."

She sounds almost bummed; it makes Chandler smile for real. It feels weird. "I'm sure it was very touching."

"It  _was_." She frowns. "But you  _hate_ shrinks."

Chandler pulls his hand away, mostly to tease her. "Do you  _want_  me to change my mind?"

"No." She elbows him in the ribs (harder than she probably intends, but that is Monica for you) and recaptures his hand, squeezing it. "I'm happy."

Chandler bites his lip, somewhat awkward in the face of her scincerity. There is still something heavy lodged deep in his chest, but he is almost used to that feeling by now. He feels almost serene, relaxed to finally have made some kind of decision. It feels good to have a goal, something to focus on. Maybe that is what he needs. Something to center him.

It is okay, for now.


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry with the delay in posting the epilogue! And I feel kind of like trash that I made you wait for something so short. \o/ But either way, I hope you enjoy it. I'm so grateful to all you readers and commenters for sticking with the story this far. And thank you Trovia for the super sweet recommendation, it made my evening!

Winter eventually eases into spring and the transition is somehow as unsettling as it is welcome. It is like Chandler has been  _stuck_ for so long, everything new will serve to disorient him, throw him off. With the days slowly becoming longer, it feels like the sunlight gives him a new perspective of himself and it is not altogether a bad thing. Disconcerting, yes, but not bad.

It takes him three attempts to find a shrink that he doesn't want to throttle. He very nearly gives up (because seriously, what's the point?), and he probably would have if Monica hadn't literally hit him over the head with a magazine when he had tried to deflect.

He knows, logically, that maybe it isn't the shrink that is the problem. Maybe it is him and his own reluctance, and he eventually forces himself to settle for a calm, middle-aged woman who keeps her office clean to an almost Monica-approved standard. She doesn't try to talk him into envisioning his problems as leaves that will blow away in the wind, which definitely works in her favor.

She runs a private practice and has good recommendations. Unfortunately this also means that visiting her twice a week is creating quite a hole in Chandler's pocket. At least she is up front about it; if he would consider reporting his rape to the police it might be possible for him to get to a state-financed therapy plan at a hospital.

Chandler is not exactly sure which part of that statement he finds the least unsettling. It is a big no either way. He can barely talk to his therapist about this: reporting it to the police would be impossible. The mere thought of looking a policeman in the eye while saying it makes his stomach churn.

It is still incredibly difficult to talk about it. Chandler has been deflecting with humor and sarcasm his entire life so forcing himself to open up is only slightly easier than pulling out teeth with no anesthesia. Most of the time he doesn't even know what to say, and his therapist's silence as she waits for him to explain a statement or to simply tell her more can be extremely infuriating.

Whenever he tries to switch to sarcasm she tells him that his personal method of repressing everything, almost to the point of denial, doesn't seem to be working out that well for him.

She may have a point.

The one cliched metaphor she gives him is a knot. It is like he has worked himself into one, with his emotions running in a disarray of directions. Repression, anger, anxiety, depression. It keeps getting tighter and tighter and unless he has the patience to carefully work himself out of it he may have to walk around with a permanent bump on his lifeline.

That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt to do it, however.

He has never been too good at dealing with pain. He goes through different stages of irritation and may or may not be a pain to be around sometimes. It is often followed by exhaustion, and on his therapist's recommendation he begins to take sleeping pills.

To his surprise they actually kind of work, in more ways than one. For one thing he actually sleeps at night. For another, somewhat proper rest does make him feel more balanced. It means he will feel groggy in the mornings, which in turn means that he may have called in sick to work a bit more than he ought to, but in the end it feels okay. He is offered anti-anxiety pills as well, but decides against it. For the time being.

His friends' lives continue in the periphery of Chandler's own. The knowledge that something is going on with him eventually spreads through the entire group until it is more or less an open secret. In the beginning it bothers him because he  _hates_  the idea of what they might think of him or that they even think about him at all. After a while he starts to relax into it. They don't ask any questions (though he is sure they want to) and it gives him a certain leeway. It doesn't make anything feel better, per se, but it least it doesn't make things worse.

He gets his STD test results back and they are all negative. What had started as mostly a formality turned out to be more a relief than he had expected. He is scheduled for a new test in a couple of months and hopefully that will turn okay as well.

Some days are better than other. Some mornings don't rob him of all energy. He hangs out more and more at Central Perk again, and is startled to realize that both Phoebe and Monica are dating new guys that he has never met before, and that Ross is  _still_  hung up on Rachel. A couple of days later Phoebe dumps her guy and once she leaves the cafe they all offer their theories regarding the reason.

It takes Chandler a moment to realize that there is something weird going on. It nags at his consciousness, his mind processing it until he can finally identify it.

He feels  _normal_.

Of course, once the thought enters his mind he finds himself unable to avoid the return of the heavy feeling that usually occupies his chest, but the memory of the feeling lingers.

Huh.

* * *

 

Since Chandler has made an effort to update himself on the doings of his friends nowadays; he knows for a fact that Rachel and Phoebe went to catch a movie and that Monica had headed out on a date earlier this evening. Thus he is not at all surprised to find the apartment dark when he uses the extra key for the purpose of borrowing, well,  _stealing_  some milk for his glamorous Saturday evening cereal.

"Hey."

He yelps, jumping back and hitting his elbow against the doorknob just  _there_. The whine he lets out from the pain is even more embarrassing than the yelp. "What are you  _doing_ here?"

Monica straightens from where she had been sitting, hunched over the kitchen table, grimacing oddly.

"I _live_  here. What are you doing here?"

"Well, uh." The pain in his elbow slowly subsides, allowing Chandler to take in Monica's somewhat red-rimmed eyes. He has only seen that look on her face a couple times before and he doesn't like it, nor the feeling of helplessness that rises in him. "Just borrowing something. You okay?"

She brushes her hair out of her face, half-shrugging. "Just... date stuff."

His hunger forgotten, pulls out one of the kitchen chairs and sits down, facing her. "I guess it didn't go very well?"

"Well, no," Monica says, almost casually, giving it a moment before she bursts. "We're not going to see each other anymore." She gestures violently with one hand in a way that would have made her look angry if she hadn't also looked so miserable. "I really liked him, and he  _broke up_  with me."

Chandler is generally not too fond of the guys Monica chooses to date because he knows that she could do so much better. Why does she bother with the people with no sense of humor whatsoever, the compulsive liars or the ones with the horrible haircuts? He hasn't met this newest guy, however, so he can't solve this by pointing out his bad qualities the way he would usually do.

"Guys suck," he says instead, patting her hand in a way that feels feeble, but still better than doing nothing. "I should know, I am one."

That makes her smile faintly. "You don't suck, sweetie."

For some reason Chandler feels his cheeks heat up. He clears his throat, realizing that he is still patting Monica's hand, and pulls away. "Uh, ice-cream time?"

Monica ignores his awkwardness, or at least seems amused by it. "No, I need a beer."

"Ah, a woman after my own heart." Alcohol doesn't go too well with his sleeping pills, but he could probably ignore that just this one time.

Monica's smile widens, looking more genuine than it has since Chandler had walked through the door.

"Hey," she says. "Thanks."

Her smile warms him, even as he is struck by the oddness of being the one comforting  _her_ for a change. It has been the other way around for some time now and there is a horrible little part of him that kind of likes it. It feels good to be the strong one for a change. He guiltily shoots the thought down.

Of course, when Chandler starts  _thinking_ , the anxiety enters his chest like an old, familiar enemy. He shrugs it off the best he can, almost more annoyed than anything. It does, however, remind him of something that he had been planning on doing.

"No," he says before he can change his mind. "Thank  _you_." He pauses, clearing his throat that suddenly feels dry. Monica looks at him quizzically. "For being around, I mean. After I was... well."

He had planned to say the word this time, he really had. He still hasn't been able to say it aloud, not even in therapy. He can barely stand hearing other people say it.

Monica, to her credit, doesn't look uncomfortable with his sudden softness. Her smile, though looking almost unsteady, is all genuine and soft. "You look like you're feeling better," she says.

"Maybe," Chandler says.

He kind of believes it.


End file.
